Tony French

dedication

She was called by her father on a summer’s morning:
“Be ready, child, we leave now, the day is dawning.”
And forthwith, they rode, from the land that she knew,
Further than she’d been, into a valley new.
And along the wooded trail, as they eased to a pace,
She asked of her father what he knew of this place.
“What you will know too,” he said with a smile,
“For this land is your family’s, stretching mile after mile.
But only the land to the left of this road,
Yet all, for generations, is where your kin tilled and sowed.”
“But what of the land to the right?” she enquired.
“Oh, none live there that your forefather’s sired.
But now,” he continued, “I must tell you why we’ve come.
For your mother and I…understand you’ve met someone.
And there’s a day – like today – in which we in our time,
Were taken down a road such as this, that comes now…
To daughter of mine.”

And with that they turned into a large open glade,
Where dozens of their kinfolk on wooden benches were arrayed.
But only on the left, for to the right sat many others,
And as she took in the view, she tried to discover
Whether in the sea of new faces, she knew anyone,
When suddenly her eyes blinked, as if from rays of the sun.
For the face of her beloved was looking back at her.
And as he came over to embrace her, she heard her father’s words:
“To the heart of this valley, your young lover took a ride,
This morning, before us, with his father by his side,
While your mothers and kinfolk prepared this ancient place
With flowers, food and wine, fit to receive God’s grace,
For a marriage of true hearts. And for all of us here,
We are overjoyed and blessed, for now we can draw near.
For the land to the right is of your lover’s forebears.
But now this land, beyond, is for all of us to share.
This green valley is your heart, this great world is a church.
Along aisles – or roads – in Love…
Do the two sides merge.”

For my mum, my mother, a grand (young) lady,
Is her son, no other, her grown-up baby,
Come, to discover, in this grove so shady,
With a poem, how I love her, and with writing maybe…

Uncover, with the necessity, of rhyme and rhythm,
A lover’s propensity, to undermine in him,
Everything other, than underlying givens,
Nothing to cover the undenying fool’s whim…

To declare, forthright, the plain and simple truth,
That whether, for nights, I was staying under her roof,
Or otherwise, in flight (having left the nest as a youth),
I have never, despite the dress of appearing aloof…